


Two Shots in a Dark Room

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Early in Canon, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Summer, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22005739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: There's a beach in a small town and two Winchesters. One is ready for a vacation, the other isn't. Neither of them are prepared for the aftermath.Written for smalltrolven for spnj2xmas
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65
Collections: 2019 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange





	Two Shots in a Dark Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smalltrolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalltrolven/gifts).



> Many apologies to the recipient and the mods for the delay in posting this. I hope you enjoy anyway - I built this around your vacation prompt though it's a little more sombre than I intended! There's a lighter hearted vignette that didn't fit into the main fic that I'll upload once I have a chance

There's not many things that Sam remembers with fierce clarity from his very early childhood. Most of what there is, is Dean. Dad fades in and out of the corners at times, a black shadow that only ever emerges to first awkwardly discipline, and the command, the distance already growing between them. There's not much else - bright sunlight between the slats of wood in a barn that didn't belong to them, Dean whooping on the back of an unbridled pony let loose in a field, holding onto Sam with his fingers digging in deep to his ribs. There's not a lot of other memories of those early years, just Dean holding back branches so they don't smack Sam in the face, Dean making him so angry that he cried, the too sweet taste of unbranded cola, and a small kitten dancing around their feet in a trailer park that Sam long ago forgot the name of, and that Dean never remembered at all.

There's something eminently, deeply practical about the way that Dean remembers - his first hunt, his first kiss, his first fuck, the first time that he broke his arm. At least that's what he claims and Sam can't prove otherwise. Can't crawl inside Dean's head and say _"you remember."_ You remember this, you remember that. Dean, you remember the first time you cried, surprised and hurt, the way that Sam had looked at him and felt the world was shattering around him, like something firm under his feet had suddenly shifted, that nothing was solid anymore. For a long time Sam had thought he'd remembered all of it for them both, Dean's world cast in sunlight, and his in dappled shadow.

It's a long, long time later that he learns differently. They're on a beach, Sam barefoot, and Dean in heavy boots, still reluctant to accept that this is as close as they ever come to a holiday. It's doubly ridiculous because Sam's seen Dean on a dozen beaches, sunburn across his face and shoulders, peeling and sore, the pale patches beneath the red accentuated when he finally smears swiped suncream across his skin, over his mouth and his face, teeth bright underneath it and smiling like he expects Sam to appreciate the joke. So him standing there, heavy and frowning is alien, a slap in the face to every childhood memory that Sam has.

"You can take off your shoes at least," he says, waits for the smile that follows reluctantly across Dean's face, wiped off as fast as he can make it. Dean sheds like a snake after that, jacket on the sand, followed by boots. He's still ridiculously overdressed compared to the other people on the beach - black t-shirt and jeans, feet pale and naked, but Sam can't judge. He hasn't shed most of the protective shell himself, they sit there, incongrous amongst bikinis and beach-shirts, a cooler of beer between them. He's never felt more foreign from everyone else around him, and he sat on a Stanford lawn, sweating underneath a hot sun in clothes that had always belonged to his brother, until Sam walked away and claimed them as his own. Wore them long enough that his own scent sunk in enough that he recognised them in dark mornings as being his own and not the long shed remnants of a brother he'd outgrown and left behind.

Now Dean's next to him, dark patches underneath the armpits of a faded Judas Priest shirt, sweat beading on the top of his lip as he tips a beer up to his mouth. Sam doesn't bother looking at his cell for the time. It's before twelve, but Dean will say he's on holiday, seize the moral high ground that they abandoned long ago, cock an eyebrow at Sam as though he's violated the unspoken rules of their unagreed vacation. Sam fumbles at his own beer, cool in a too-hot hand, ignores the disapproving stare to his left of a fellow beach-goer dressed in an oversized hat and easy judgement. _It's a vacation man._ The voice in his head sounds like Dean.

Dean grins behind the beer bottle as though he's watching Sam. "Just like you imagined?" he asks, devoid of intentional malice, but there's a teasing twist in his voice that isn't too far off. It brings back memories of years when Sam had been desperate for Dean to just admit that he felt the same - that it destroyed him when Dad moved them on, just as he'd sunk down roots, found a girlfriend, found a job. Would it hurt that much for Dean to be honest about what he wanted?

They've never really had a vacation. Dean knows that as much as Sam does, which is why he's digging a knife in for a joke. They had towns by the sea, towns by the lake, tourist destinations across the years, all of them cut short, truncated by Dad's needs, and Sam wishes that the years had taken the sting, buried that underneath everything else. That he doesn't remember with such painful clarity everything that it took to move. It would be easier to forgive, easier to forget if he didn't remember so well.

There's nothing he can say in response so he doesn't. Leans back into the sun, arms above his head, and shuts Dean out in favour of the merciless light, the tingle of the sun on too long hidden skin. "Yeah," he says. "Just like this."

It's the end of the season on a Tuesday and there's a little hint of a wind cutting through the harsh brightness of the sun, a skim of cool air along too heated skin. Sam can tell even without turning that Dean's watching him. He can feel it without looking, the bruising certainty of the look, as though now that he's not looking back, Dean can look at him. It's long enough from their childhood that Sam doesn't feel resentful at the sensation of being watched. Dean can look if he wants, Sam's never begrudged that, sometimes he can admit to himself that he invites it. He'd missed it, even when he'd been relieved.

When they finally make a move off the beach, Sam feels like he's been cooked all the way through - he might not burn like Dean does, but he feels too tight and pink even under his t-shirt and he can tell from the way Dean's grinning that he's got a touch of the sun across his face. "Great minds," he tells Sam and tosses him a bottle of water that feels like the sea on his skin. He rolls it across his face before he drinks it, as Dean hefts the cooler back to the car parked in the motel lot. They can't get into it, a furnace of heat that even Dean doesn't seriously want to sit through, but they're close enough to the beach that bars abound, the kind of low joints that Dean likes and Sam tolerates. He suggests going back to the room first, but Dean's latched onto vacation as the best excuse that he's ever heard. Anything Sam says, gets greeted with a shrug and a grin, and a "it's a vacation Sam, relax." It's an excuse for new sunglasses, for him ordering Sam a margarita just to laugh at him drinking it, to order crabcakes without shame. There's a sudden license it feels to them both, Dean's even moving easier in his skin, shoulder bumping into Sam's as they walk along the sea front.

They don't talk about the hunt, they don't really talk about anything. After the first three beers they could be anyone, and Sam finds himself thinking they might be. If he doesn't look at Dean, Dean could be someone else. If he doesn't look too close at the town, the fading battered posters and the closing up of the smaller shops, he could be anywhere. So it makes a stupid kind of sense to follow Dean back out to the beach, the sensible bit of his mind that reminds him about the dangers of drunk swimming (or in Dean's case drunk paddling) has put itself to bed. It's ridiculously early really, the sun is only just going down, sea flooded with red and gold, waters dark and deep. There's a few teens hanging out on the sea wall, still pushing each other into the water, hair slicked down to their heads as they hollered out over the sea. Dean's looking at them and grinning.

"You remember that spring in Rockwell?"

Sam remembers. It'd been freezing compared to this, so cold that swimming had seemed impossible except for the locals who thought that if there was no ice on the surface it was warm. Dirty little house and a five month stay, where Sam had practiced his swimming in the lake, the centre point for everything that happened at the school. He's surprised Dean remembers much, he'd been long out of school then, working to supplement the money Dad had left. Sam remembers, Dean perched on the side, fending Sam off with a foot when he tried to get out, Sam laughing so hard that he felt like he was going to die from it, at the concentrated look on Dean's face. He remembers the guiltiness of that whole spring and summer, the way he felt like every move he made was suspect, no way to rationalise anything he felt, and Dean oblivious to everything. He hasn't thought about those angry weeks in years, the push-pull between what he felt and what he ought to feel. Dean referencing it so casually throws him. "Yeah," he says. "Best swimming we ever had."

Dean laughs. "I remember telling you that Dad told me to throw you in every day for a week to test your reflexes and that he was gonna grade you when he got back."

"That was a lie?" Sam says, somehow surprised even after multiple decades of Dean being a secret dick. Dean's increased laughter tells him everything he needs to know, and it seems like a great idea at the time to get revenge. Dean's off his guard, bent over to laugh, and it's the work of a moment to push him into the sea. Even that doesn't stop the laughter, Dean struggling up to claw Sam down, and because Sam's stupid and drunk, and Dean's looking at him full on and not just when Sam looks away, he goes with it. Stumbles down into the surf, shorts soaked, not nearly as big a bitch to get off as Dean's jeans are going to be though, and Dean grabs him around the neck and pulls him down further. In the distance Sam can hear the teenagers laughing, not malicious just amused at the drunks who think the sea is for fighting in. Then it's a struggle of wills between the two of them, Dean rolling them over and Sam fighting for the upper hand, water only a few inches deep but already colder from the encroaching night. He's laughing as well, until Dean's suddenly struggling away, letting go of Sam's wrists, face flushed with sunburn and also a slow rise of blood. It takes a moment for Sam to clock it, to realise that Dean's hard, and that the way Dean's looking at him, guilt painted across his face means it wasn't an accident.

"Fuck Sam," he says, and turns to walk away like he can't stand there any longer. Sam lies there for a moment more, head empty and quiet like the magnitude of this has driven thoughts out for a second, before he gets to his feet and walks after Dean, tracks him along first the beach and then the front, three steps behind and Dean ignoring every move. He's heading back to the motel, not for the room, but for the Impala parked up. Sam speeds his pace, intercepts his path before he ever gets there. He's not sure what he can say, in the end he doesn't need to say anything - Dean swerves to avoid him, heads for the room like that had been the plan all along, steps into the bathroom to strip off his jeans, not looking at Sam like any of this is Sam's fault. It's the same when he comes out, pauses outside the door.

Sam's heart beats so fast in his chest that it feels like Dean has to see it, thumping away under the skin, Sam's breaths consciously slow and secure as though to fool them both. Dean's hands reach out to him involuntarily, glint of the bathroom light off his ring, the movement abruptly truncated. Sam watches it, so he doesn't meet Dean's eyes, licks lips without meaning to, dried out against the oppressive heat of the poorly airconditioned room. They're stuck there, caught between two impossible situations. There's a thin path back to normalcy here. It's an emergency line on the floor of a plane, dimly lit in the dark, leading to an improbable maybe safety, But Sam can't find it or follow it, eyes glued to the space between them. The longer they wait, the more inevitable it is. Sam should walk away, can't. Dean does it for him, pushes past, a deliberate nudge of his shoulder to Sam's. It should defuse the tension, burst the delicate bubble of the energy between them and render it meaningless. Make it something that Sam can turn over in his mind, until he finds a box small enough and secure enough inside his head to store it in and never think about again. It doesn't, the touch burns through Sam's resolve, anger bubbling up underneath his skin. Dean's running, just like Sam does. But Dean's fleeing inside, locking Sam up tight, along with too complicated memories, the things he swears he can't remember or that never happened. Words sit on Sam's mouth, hard and scornful - if Stanford was running, what makes Dean any better?

Dean's moving away like he's found the line of safety along the floor, heading for the window like he wants to check the salt line one more time. Halts before he gets there. "Heading out Sammy," and even the name sounds like a lie. "Stay tight, sleep off the sun." It's a dismissal as much as if he'd slapped Sam across the face, stings the same way.

"No," Sam says, and watches the straight line of Dean's back tense. "Save cash, drink at home." It's a carrot and they both know it. Sam knows as well that this is a dangerous game.

"You got two glasses?" It's there on the table now. If this is a game, they're both playing.

The bathroom yields a sorry glass and Sam has a travel mug at the bottom of his duffle. They look about as mismatched as Sam and Dean do, Dean on the floor, shuffling cards before he turns to the bottle. Sam's turned on the lamp, and there's enough light for this, to pick out kings and queens, to see how steady Dean's hand is when he pours them both a drink, sloshes it in with ease so practiced Sam knows he could measure them both and they'd be identical. Another scrap of childhood, the careful precision of fairness in all the small things, as though it'd mask the terrible unfairness of the bigger. Sam still makes a show of judging them both before he takes the mug and knocks it back. Feels Dean's eyes on his throat, can always feel them. When he tips his chin back down towards the cards, Dean's looked away, concentrating on shuffling and reshuffling, deals out for five card and drinks from the glass without looking at it. The whisky stacks uneasily on top of the beer and the tequila, jostles with the memory of a burger. Dean's refilled his own, doesn't refill Sam's, usual ritual of a second shot for himself. There's a scrupulousness to Dean's fairness, the shots poured might be equal, but the numbers never have been.

Sam wins the first hand, folds the second and the third with a low pair each, wonders why Dean didn't deal for Texas instead, and then loses the fourth on a stupid bluff. He's a better card player than Dean when he's not been drinking, Dean plays on the same instinct as he plays pool with, instinct of a shark for a hustle, half the plays just reading the room. Sam counts cards and he knows Dean. Even that can't fight too many drinks and shitty cards. After the fifth hand where Dean wins on a paltry king high, Sam's had enough, of the game, the silence, the wet cling of his t-shirt to his back, the way Dean looks more intent on his cards than he does on Sam. "Switch games?" he says, not really a question.  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows, there's a rule to this like there is to everything in his life. The last person who wins picks the game. Sam pushes forward his mug, a tacit swap. Dean pours and Sam gathers up the cards, thumbs through them, worn and greasy, cards Dean could probably deal in his sleep and be sure of knowing which card was which. No wonder he was losing. He splits them in half and offers half to Dean who takes them without touching his hand, looks at them with a puzzled frown. There's ink stains on his hands from the newspaper earlier, black thumbprint from Sam's grip still on his wrist. "What game?"

"Snap," Sam says, he doesn't want another drink but takes the mug anyway, holds it between his knees while he leans forward, waits for Dean to start. "I can teach you the rules if you've forgotten." Faux-innocent tone and Dean knows exactly what he's doing, flicks up a half hearted glare that he tries to make threatening but can't.

"Fuck you Sam," he replies, but he flips the first card forward anyway, and they go through half a pack before they both deal out eights, and Sam tries to grab the cards. Dean's faster, gets there first, innate competitiveness overcoming his suspiciousness of Sam's motives. Dean's hand is solid under his own for a second only, before he whips it back. "Don't do this Sam," he says, but it's a plea not a demand.

"What?" Sam says, and the words fall out faster than he can think them. "Don't touch you? People touch all the time." He can hear himself the same snide tone again, like he's slipped sideways through time back to being a fourteen year old who never had any real words to say what he felt, who borrowed from books to make up the lack. "Gonna say we're not people?"

Dean wipes his hand over his eyes, then over his mouth like he's trying to explain. "We're not, c'mon you know that. What do you want me to do Sam? What can make this better?"

There's never been an answer to that and Sam still doesn't have one. He's just tired of living on the edge, of fear running in his blood, tired of living with the results of whatever fucked up biology and circumstance has brought them here, without any benefits, every side of the coin a downside. It's half him talking and half the whisky. If in thought there was sinning, there's already a place carved out for him somewhere dark and deep, and he knows there's one for Dean as well, maybe up close. There's a timeline on their lives, a ticking clock and Sam's tired of wondering nature or nuture, hating and fearing all the answers. "Nothing," he says. "Stop trying to make it better. Stop lying and hiding. Tell me you don't want this and we'll never talk about it again." Sam knows even as he says it, that that'll never be an option for Dean, that he's driving him towards the inevitable.

"Shut the fuck up Sam," Dean says, and he's dropped the cards he took. "We can't."

"Because Dad? Because I left?" Sam says, "because you still think I'm a kid, like you don't know who you see when you look at me?"

He's not surprised by Dean lunging for him then, the words had been designed to hurt, precision engineered to crawl under his skin. Dean's knocked over Sam's glass and the booze is slowly emptying into the carpet as Dean shakes him like a rag doll, fingers locked in the front of his shirt. Sam could break his grip in an instant, but he doesn't. Dean doesn't want to hurt him, he wants to flay himself apart, and Sam knows that feeling. There's a tickle in his skull that feels like where fire ought to be kept, but it's Dean that's sinking into him. "I know," Sam says, so low he doesn't even know if Dean can hear the words as anything other than a vibration of Sam's throat. "Me as well," he says, clearer and louder so Dean can't pretend he didn't hear that bit. There's a train coming down the tracks for them both, and Sam's tired of hiding. If they're going to die, he wants to have lived. It's an effort to touch Dean's arm, to get up to his fingers and untangle them, Sam doesn't know what the movement in his gut is, fear or excitement or an ancient remnant of conscience, John's shadow across them both.

There's a raspy sound from Dean's throat, kind of like he's laughing. "You never give up do you?" he says, curls his fingers around Sam's for a brief second before he pulls away, rocks back onto his heels. "I'm going to hell for this." It's matter of fact. and there's nothing Sam can do to reply because it's pretty much true for them both.

"Not just for this," he offers instead, a jab to the gut but Dean smiles anyway because he knows what Sam's saying. Never any other end, just another path.

It's not really a kiss at the beginning, and that's the first justification Sam hands to himself. They bump together, like this is a first first kiss, Dean's hand first on his back, then his hair, sliding down to settle on his neck, and Sam can barely breathe, turns away from Dean's mouth and pulls him closer, until they're so close that it's almost unbearable in the heat of the room. The air presses down on them, and it's Sam turn to touch, to drag his hands over Dean's face, to close his eyes and try again. Dean's mouth is soft for a second as though this is still a strange surprise, and Sam almost pulls away. It's not too late to stop, to go back. When he tries though, Dean kisses him back, scrapes Sam's lip, kisses him like this is an actual kiss, like they're the two adjacent strangers that Sam had thought they could be. The next time is induitable, and Sam's seen the way Dean can kiss, feels it now firsthand, gives back as good as he gets, like they're still wrestling in the water for the upper hand. Dean's still sprawled on the floor, pinned against the bed, and Sam's dizzy again, nothing to do with the remnants of the booze or the heat of the room, everything to do with the way that Dean's reaching back.

He wants to ask how long, but the answer doesn't matter, and he can't pull himself away from Dean long enough anyway. Dean's in sweats now, and his hard on is obvious as he pulls Sam down into his lap. It's ridiculously awkward, Sam's too big for it, legs folded awkwardly, but he can't stop, feels like he's suffocating when he pulls away. The way that Sam feels doesn't feel like it can be real, or good. But he can't consider the bad because that's all they've been given and it's time for something else. Dean rocks up against him, drags his hands down to the back of Sam's t-shirt, pulls it away from his skin to slide a hand underneath, skin too hot, like he's sunburnt all over, him and Sam rubbing raw together, exposing unhealed flesh that's usually covered. They've been closer than this before in reality, Dean's fingers in Sam's mouth, deep in his wounds, Sam spilling his guts in a haunted mansion's bed. Sam's picked Dean apart as well, seen and judged him, found him wanting and too much, there's bits of them left behind each time, and they're just adding to it now.

"Come on," Dean's whispering, and his fingers run over the ridge of Sam's spine, tracing it along, until his fingers end where they were always going to be, over the ridged scar. Sam arches away from the touch at first, but Dean's fingers return as he kisses Sam's neck, gnaws at his pulse point like this is another entrance in. Sam tilts his head, lets him, rubs against Dean as best as he can, fingers light at first, and then deeper as Dean shudders under his hands. There's frustration boiling under his skin and Dean senses it, spreads his knees so Sam can get closer, jerks up with no finesse as Sam touches him, holds him for a long second through his sweatpants. There's a lot of moments they could turn back, this should be one of them, but it isn't, this bit is inevitable - the first time he touches with intent. Dean goes rigid under him, fingers curling against Sam's back, mouth open against the skin of Sam's neck, and it's like a dam's broken finally. Sam gets his hand underneath the cloth, touches Dean properly, the least strange bit of all of this. He kind of feels like Sam, here at least, familiar and usual, world turned upside down and mirrored.

Dean's thick and heavy in his hand, as hot as the rest of him, damp at the tip and he's moving against Sam desperately, one hand still on Sam's scar, the other pulling him in closer. Then the world tilts and Dean's urging him back to lie on the floor, Dean's weight heavy on top of him, sweatpants shoved down around his hips, unconsciously obscene, and Sam's shoving down his own shorts, wriggling under Dean's weight. Dean settles in close again, aligned now, and they rub together until Sam can't take anymore, gets his hand between them and rocks up against Dean. There's a smell of salt-water in the air even over the spilt liquor, and it only intensifies as Dean comes finally, all over Sam's belly and the t-shirt he's still wearing, thrusts against Sam still until Sam comes as well, messy and sudden, pulling Dean down to muffle his gasp against Dean's mouth, breathing out into him as Dean draws in. The whole thing is impossible and Sam lies there amongst the carnage of the room, feeling their hearts slow near enough in tandem to make no difference. Dean is half on and half off him, hasn't bothered rolling away.

"You know," Dean says, apropos of nothing. "When you were a kid, you hated going places alone. You know that, kind of funny really. Like you were never an afraid kid. But like, you liked it. The company. I kind of get how you felt now."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year everyone!


End file.
